“I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of.”*
Charles Bukowski

Her soft, elegant lips
Form a happy smile,
A sharp contrast with her moist eyes.
A magnificent ruin.
It was her impassioned spirit that led them through
As they hovered on tiptoe
Into uncharted waters.
Sooner enough,
Innocent affection flowered
Into overwhelming passion.
The candle of love was lit,
And as it flickered
He was able to look into her eyes,
Not deep inside,
But just enough to see a reflection of himself-
Look at me. What am I doing? Is this right?
With that same light
She was able to look in his heart
And see him as nothing
But an apostle of pleasure.

She forever drifted off into reverie
And when shaken up from it,
She got up to chase a mirage,
Pulling and tugging and urging him along too
But he only made token efforts to find it.
And it finally made sense-
Those many, many nights,
Where there were more drinks and less lights,
And the grey plume of smoke from his cigarette constantly rose up and clouded his vision,
He only saw the real him,
Never the real her.